Sulking
by kithara1013
Summary: This is Slash. DMM. Do not read if you don't know what slash is. Nothing graphic, only a kiss or 3. COMPLETE


Title: Sulking

Author: Kithara1013

Rating: MA

Genre: Slash

Show: Highlander

Pairing: DM/M

Disclaimer: I don't own anyone

Author's notes: This is slash. Please don't read this if you don't know what that is. This contains two men who love each other and who show it. Nothing graphic, just a kiss or 3.

* * *

Methos is not happy today.

There are days when the thousands of years weigh on him and he is Atlas, holding up the world. It is nearly impossible to hold a conversation when he is in this mood. He's likely to snap at you as ignore you. Of course, he's stuck in my home because of the blizzard dumping all the snow in Creation on Seacouver.

He's moping but I won't say that to him. He'd probably put a knife in my stomach out of spite.

Methos has never told me the reasons. When it first happened, I asked him what was wrong. I was only trying to be a good friend. The complaining he did for the next few days discouraged me from asking again. I like to think of it as his "time of the month." It just happens at infrequent intervals.

Today seems to be a "sulk" day. Nothing made him happy, except complaining about every little detail. He is sprawled on my couch, trying to read "Ye Booke of Olde" and sighing pitifully. I wonder if Methos ever reads any of the best sellers?

"Why are you living in this god-forsaken, frigid, sorry excuse for …."

There he goes again. Every time he comes here, he complains about the weather and the temperature and the position of the goddamn moon.

"Why are you here then?" I ask.

Methos is a master deflector. He has to be to have survived for so long and still stay relatively sane. This question, however, starts him fresh on the state of affairs he is currently in.

I sit down in front of him on the coffee table and watch him insult my home, my couch and my hospitality. Apparently I am an inconsiderate host and will descend to that special spot in hell reserved for gum snappers, rude cell phone talkers and opera listeners. Well, I can't let Methos believe I don't have his best interests at heart.

I lean forward until I am in his personal space. He doesn't notice until it is too late. I silence that lovely mouth with a soft kiss.

There is blessed silence for a moment. "What was that?"

I freeze, unsure of what to do. Something in his voice sounds dark, ancient. Have I just made a horrible mistake? Never let it be said that Highlanders are a cowardly lot. We're stubborn fools who never know when to give up. "A kiss."

"And why did you do that, Macleod?"

I pause again. How to answer? Should I make excuses, tell him I wanted him to shut up? I was looking for a little bit of fun?

Or should I be truthful? Tell him that when he is around, my world is 100 times more vibrant. His laugh keeps me going or his smile makes me breathless.

Better not. If he heard me say that, he'd kick my ass for sure.

I open my mouth to make light of it but the look in his eyes changes everything. Those green eyes are shuttered but hidden so far down, I would have missed it, was hope. "I needed to," I say.

Those eyes grow shrewd. The old bastard is thinking. The longer I let him get his bearings, the more his advantage grows. I can't let that happen. "What do you mean, need?" he asks me.

"Need as in I needed to kiss you or I would go insane." Why can't we get to the making out part? That's so much more enjoyable.

"Too late," he mutters.

I can't help myself. I move and kiss him again, lingering a little to make sure he knows that I mean it. After I pull back, he looks at me, a small, almost private smile on his face.

He asks me, "Did you need to do that again?"

I smile this time. "No." Methos frowns and I can't help pausing a bit to make him sweat. "I wanted to."

"Ah." His voice rumbles pleasantly, a wonderful bass sound that sends a shiver down my back. "And what if I don't want you to?"

I grow serious. "Then I will stop. If that is what you want." I move out of his personal space. It is suddenly very important that he answers.

His face turns away and I cannot see his eyes. I have no idea what he is thinking and that scares me. I prepare myself for rejection. When did this become so important?

He turns toward me and gives me a breathtaking smile. "I need you to." He leans back on the couch. "So what are you going to do about that, Highlander?"

I can't help myself. He makes such an inviting picture laying across my couch with that "come hither" look. I pounce.

He grunts as my 200 pound frame jumps on him. "You highland barbarian! What the hell are you doing?"

I straddle his thighs and stare at him, nose to nose. "Fulfilling a need." I lean down and take his mouth.

He tastes like beer and it is familiar, safe. Kissing Methos is like coming home. The kiss is playful, light but it begins to change and become more serious. I can't help it. He is mine, my surly old bastard, my touchstone, my Methos. He has survived for so long and I know he has a better chance at staying alive. If I can keep him, he will stay. I don't want to leave him. I don't want him to leave me.

He pulls back and leans his forehead against mine, our breaths mingling. "Duncan," he sighs.

And I know.


End file.
